


Be gentle, love

by Zombiebarnes



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, Happy Ending, Jadzia is the station's resident 50 year old mum, Julian is a dumb moron bitch boy, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, as usual, some brief descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 18:58:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18531160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zombiebarnes/pseuds/Zombiebarnes
Summary: Soulmarks are common knowledge on Cardassia Prime, a source of intrigue and speculation, they're a well kept secret. A young Elim Garak quickly discovers the burdens that accompany them.





	Be gentle, love

**Author's Note:**

> This is a soulmate AU based on a tumblr post by @linscoresby and @spider-transman. You can find the post here (https://linscoresby.tumblr.com/post/184143330949/ds9-garashir-soulmates-au)
> 
> The playlist I used to write this fic can also be found here (https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0jkwNZHqbQR8RlIWmoqMW5) for those who are interested!

There were few things a Cardassian was raised to value more than family. Honour, integrity, reputation, but your obligation to your flesh and blood always came first. That's why soul marks were considered so important. From a young age, Garak's parents had raised him with the knowledge that one day, the universe would provide him with the answers to all the questions a young man might be seeking. His soul mark would appear, emblazoned in Cardassi in some place on his body. He recalled resting in his mothers’ arms as a young boy, his senses flooded with her essence. The smell of the wildflowers that grew in the mountains during the summer, the brush of her braided hair against his cheek, the warmth of her heart beating close to his neck. He’d trace the name of a man he didn’t recognise in raised text behind her ear. She’d allow it, if only to keep him quiet.

And so, Garak stood in front of the mirror, year after year, his fingers combing every visible inch of his body, poking and prodding at scales and skin as they darkened from the same light grey as the sky on Cardassia Prime to a deep, steel blue, but he had no luck. Nothing tangible to prove that he even had a mate. Perhaps his parents were wrong. Perhaps he was the only Cardassian in history to be born without the other half of his soul. Perhaps he would never truly know peace or warmth in the way it had been described to him. Perhaps he might never know what it was to find _home._

Everything changed for Garak on the day of his 18th birthday. He woke in a cold sweat, in discomfort. He rolled over only to notice that the sun had yet to rise. The second thing Garak noticed was a burning, searing sensation in his arm. The smell of burning flesh made him wince, and instinctively, his hand strayed to the region. His fingers traced raised text, and his heart skipped a beat. This was it, finally. Gradually, the letters rose from his skin, and his brow furrowed as he attempted to read them in the dark. Something felt off. This didn’t _feel_ like a Cardassian name, but- no. No, that was impossible. He was physically and emotionally exhausted, but he was certain things would be clearer in the morning.

That night wouldn’t be the last time Garak slept with a hand clasped tightly around his upper arm.

Garak woke with the sun the next morning, racing to the bathroom, and bolting the door. His hands shook violently as he slid the chiffon fabric of his night shirt up to his shoulder. The grand reveal didn’t feel like Garak had expected. His stomach churned, and he shook his head adamantly. In a bittersweet turn, his worst fears had been realised. Hesitantly, he ran his finger across raised letters in a language he didn’t recognise. It looked foreign, felt wrong in the very core of his being, but somehow, it still looked beautiful. He wasn’t quite sure how to pronounce the vowels, but he was sure he could learn. He’d see how they felt when they rolled off his tongue. His wonder, however, was short lived. He thought of his father, his military career. This couldn’t be allowed to interfere with business. It was at that moment that the decision was made for him. His father couldn’t be allowed to know about this. He would have to hide it.

The bulky bandage beneath his uniform didn’t go unnoticed when he arrived for training later on in the day, but Tain merely regarded him with a squint, and a wave of his hand. He was overwhelmed with the relief that he might just have gotten away with his act of treachery. Garak wasn’t naïve, he’d heard about what happened to those unlucky enough to be landed with a soul mate who wasn’t Cardassian- and worse still, those with a Bajoran name inscribed on their skin. He’d heard whispers in the barracks about men and women who’d disappeared before dawn, hauled from their beds by senior figures in the Obsidian Order before dawn, and who’d returned late at night, their shoulder’s bandaged with a lifeless veneer shrouding their faces, and dead eyes. Or even worse, those who’d yet to be heard from since. Garak wasn’t sure what the consequences would be if he- the son of a prominent figure in the Cardassian military- were to have his secret revealed, but he was sure he didn’t want to find out.

Several weeks passed without incident, and he largely managed to avoid his father. He made himself scarce in the household, and did his best not to cause trouble amongst his colleagues, but he awoke one morning with a surge of panic in the pit of his stomach which dutifully informed him that trouble was brewing on the horizon. The sky seemed to echo his sentiments as the sky parted to give way to the worst rainstorm he could remember, and he was summoned to Enabran Tain’s official office in the shadow of flash floods and lightening. 

He couldn’t help but notice the presence of the two guards inside his fathers office. They stepped in front of the door as he entered, and Garak’s eyebrows knitted together into a frown as he looked over to the window. Tain stood with his back to his charge, observing the marketplace as the merchants struggled to rescue their merchandise from the river that flowed through the centre of the province. Tain didn’t attempt to make small talk.  
“I should like to see your mark, Elim,” He stated matter of factly, as if giving a simple instruction, and not asking Garak to bare his very soul for the executioner. Garak swallowed hard.  
“I would prefer to keep such sensitive information to myself, sir. You understand, I’m sure.

Tain turned, the look on his face thunderous.  
“That was an order, boy. Don’t make me question your loyalty to the state,”

With a nod from Tain, the two guards moved, as if to seize his arms. He shook them off, raising both hands in defeat. It took all his willpower to steady himself. Allowing Tain to see his weakness would only make the outcome worse. Perhaps he could get away with it if he went along with orders. He shrugged nonchalantly, as if to to say _‘as you like’_ and begun to peel himself from his uniform. He handed the pieces to the two men behind him. Tain watched with interest, his piercing eyes scouting for any signs of a tremble in his son’s hands. When Garak was down to his undershirt, he stepped forward. Garak shrugged the garment off his shoulder, and turned away, waiting for the bandage to fall.

“As I thought,” Tain muttered behind him. “What does this say? What did you do?” He asked. Garak felt his posture stiffen, but he didn’t respond. “I _said_ what did you _do_?” Tain growled, wrenching Garak’s head back with a vice-like grip in his hair. The young man grit his teeth, not unused to such rough handling.  
“I couldn’t possibly attempt to explain my biology,” He quipped.  
“This is an unacceptable affront to my name, to your mother’s memory, and to the honour and dignity of Cardassia,” He spat, shoving the boy with such force that he stumbled. He heard his father begin to pace in front of his desk as he resisted the urge to cradle his sensitive scalp in his hands. Minutes passed before he dared to face the other man, asking:  
“What do you intend to do with me?” as he began to dress. Tain snatched his tunic before he could slide it over his head.  
“I’m afraid there is only one thing to do with a traitor, boy. You will have until morning to ruminate on your actions, by which time, I will expect you to do the honourable thing, one way or another. We must save face.”

Garak knew what this meant. He had but a few hours to make a decision. Kill himself or allow one of Tain’s men to do so. They’d find him in the square and shoot him from a distance. His murder would never be solved, and his body would be conveniently lost in transit. If they were feeling creative, they might poison his food, or march him into a public area, and shoot him in front of his friends and colleagues. The clean-up would be clinical and efficient, after which time, his name would be scrubbed from the records. He would exist only in the minds of those who had known him, if they dared to remembered. He nodded, drawing himself up to his full height, and smoothing out his shirt as he reconciled himself with his fate.

Back at the house, Garak packed only a small bag of his things. Mementos had not been welcomed under his father’s strict regime. As such, important items were few and far between. Only those that he had managed to covet away from his father’s prying eyes. A broach belonging to his mother, and a few, simple outfits- all long sleeved with adequate necklines. At the bottom of his bag, a wallet full of what little money he had managed to squirrel away during the course of his employment. He chose not to turn back as he closed the door to his little house behind him for the final time.

Less than 48 hours later, Garak found himself with a new set of papers, boarding a shuttle from Velos VII to the jewel in the heart of Cardassian territory- Terok Nor.

 

 

The station had seen its fair share of changes in the time Elim Garak had been a resident. Some major, some minor. He considered himself lucky to have been allowed to remain on board after the Federation had claimed the station- now referred to as Deep Space Nine. He imagined the change in management might take some getting used to, but thankfully, no one thought to suspect the station’s resident tailor of anything nefarious. A man of good character. A quiet and dutiful worker, as he had overheard the changeling describe him to the new CO.

Life aboard Terok Nor went on, and Garak had to admit, the lack of daily scorn courtesy of the members of the Obsidian Order was surprisingly pleasant subtraction from his routine. His papers stated that he was a well renowned tailor from a small southern province. He’d been raised in a poor family and had been taken on as an apprentice by a local merchant.

In reality, he had begun with very little in the way of expertise, spending hours each evening desperately combing over all the material he could find on fabrics, on stitching, on design and presentation. Thankfully, the business had flourished. He was not a rich man, but he kept well. He paid his dues and did little in the way of gossip. Now, the dawning of a new age aboard the station heralded new business opportunities, and Garak, stuck in a hum-drum and dull routine, was excited.

He observed the Federation officers moving back and forth through the promenade from his table near the replicators. It seemed that a military really was a military, regardless of their planet of origin. Garak’s train of thought was interrupted by the presence of a young man entering his peripheral vision. He was slight, with an interesting complexion, and the longest eyelashes Garak thought he had ever seen on a humanoid. He was struck immediately by how out of place he looked amongst Starfleet’s finest officers. He watched as the man gathered his thoughts, and sat down with a mug of something warm, settling into his new environment.

It took some time before he could gather the courage to approach, resting his hands on the man’s bony frame. Doctor Julian Bashir, as he would later learn, was the picture of grace. Garak didn’t imagine he could ever have been attracted to a _human_ , of all things, but it seemed it wasn’t entirely out of the question. He was intrigued by the Doctor’s stilted movements and awkward, but entirely endearing manner of speech. It wasn’t until later that evening, perusing the young Doctor’s file, that Garak recognised the letters for the first time. It had been years since he last gave a thought to the mark that adorned his shoulder, but Garak once again found himself in front of the mirror that evening, his fingertips brushing over the mark with a heavy heart.

 

 

Despite his resolve to stay away, Garak couldn’t seem to tear himself out of the company of the young man. Their relationship quickly evolved into what Garak, at first, read as something verging on a romance. The Doctor never hesitated to bicker with him, or to tell him his interpretations of literature or music were incorrect or inane. His intellect was exciting and enriching, and it ignited a passion within Garak that he hadn’t seen arise in many years. The very presence of the Doctor stoked a fire in the pit of his stomach, an all-consuming passion and interest. He was well read and well-travelled, and Garak was enthralled by his tales of his days at Starfleet academy, and the moral and ethical quandaries that arose because of his work.

Julian sat opposite him as they discussed the merits of A Christmas Carol. According to Julian, the book was about a man seeing the error of his ways and opening his heart to the joy of Christmas and the spirit of giving to others. Garak scoffed, acting as if he was paying attention to any of the Doctor’s arguments, when he found himself focused on the soft movements of Julian’s lips, the gentle rise of fall of his intonations were far more enthralling than the content of his speech.  
“So, what did you think?” Julian asked playfully, intertwining his fingers and resting his head on his hands. He smiled, a broad, genuine expression of how much he enjoyed Garak’s company.  
“It may not surprise you to note that I didn’t enjoy it,” Garak began, taking a bite of whatever Klingon “”” delicacy””” Julian had ordered on his behalf. He narrowly kept the look of disgust at bay. “I’m certain you’ll think me an awful pessimist, Doctor, but who’s to say the Mr. Scrooge wouldn’t return to his old habits a few days later? Isn’t it naïve to assume you can change decades of learnt behaviour in a matter of hours? Why, I’ve seen first-hand the circumstances a human being can endure without a change in their personality,”  
Julian rolled his eyes.  
“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. I suppose the moral of the story is that no one is beyond redemption, Garak,”

Garak huffed in disbelief. Julian thought the best of everyone, it was both a blessing and a curse, he imagined. He was trusting, loyal to a fault. It would serve him well in some circles, and poorly in others.  
“Ah, my dear, dear, Doctor. That’s where you’re wrong,” Garak smiled wolfishly, his teeth peeking through the upturned corners of his mouth. He watched as Julian sat back, crossing his arms over his chest.  
“I’m wrong? How?”  
“I do hope you’ll never have to learn this lesson, Doctor Bashir, but there is always a line,”

Their relationship only made the results of his research into Doctor Bashir’s culture harder to bare. That night, Garak had deemed it appropriate to search the Federation database on human customs, only to discover that Julian didn’t view it as a budding romance, only a friendly rivalry. Garak had not only found home but lost it along the way.

That day, something shifted within him. He began to feel irritable and jumpy. His moods became foul and he was suddenly prone to violent outbursts and swings of emotion. The soul mark burned and itched through his clothing like it had the day the blasted thing had arrived. If Garak hadn’t witnessed first-hand how the removal would affect him, he would have hacked it off himself, burned every trace of the young man he used to be, and started again. The only thing that took the edge off these feelings was the implant. At first, he had used it sparingly, discreetly during their lunches, or in the evenings to help him sleep, but every time it was triggered, the dosage required to numb his nerves rose exponentially, until his only option to remain in blissfully high spirits was to have it working continuously. The outcome he hadn’t planned for, however, was that the device might have a shelf-life.

Doctor Bashir had valiantly patched him up afterwards, asking little in the way of prying questions, and accepting his good friend’s reluctance to talk. He had made him promise to avoid such substances in the future and Garak, ever obedient to the man who held the key to the very heart of his being, had kept his word. The mark was still painful, irritating, even, but he bore it with a shrug for the sake of protecting his friend. It was a thankless task but made worth it by the occasional quirk of his brow, or the way the electricity lit up his skin like a circuit board when their hands brushed one another during a heated debate. Julian Bashir had become the sun his world revolved around.

It was a week before his birthday, and as usual, he had arranged to discuss a play Julian had recommended over a light meal. He had some choice words for the Doctor about his preferred themes and the overall optimistic tone of the piece. They had just barely scratched the surface when Garak found himself tackled the ground, a dull ache consuming his thoughts as he clutched his upper arm, gazing up at his Bajoran assailant, the man’s face contorted in pain and anger. Something scratched at the back of Garak’s throat, and darkness began to prick at the edges of his vision. Above him appeared the face of Doctor Bashir. Concerned, his hands scrabbled at the wrapping that had been shredded in the attack. Garak shook his head, tossing and turning, but the Doctor was insistent. He hissed and scratched, thrashing out of his grasp when he attempted to look. The Doctor kept repeating something he couldn’t quite hear, his voice becoming frantic and distant as Garak blacked out.

The first thing that greeted Garak as he regained consciousness was the clinical smell of the station’s sickbay. The lights overheard were almost painfully bright. He knew Julian had requested they be dimmed when he arrived. Gul Dukat had preferred that they were harsh and unpleasant for the station’s Bajoran inhabitants, and any Cardassians who might find themselves unlucky enough to land under the care of the station’s last chief physician. He attempted to sit up, only to find himself restrained by a pair of warm, steady hands. Instinctively, he reached for the dressing that covered his mark, only to find himself greeted by bare skin. Bile began to rise in the back of his throat, and a burning, scratching sensation claws its way beneath his skin. _He saw he saw he saw he saw he saw_ Garak’s mind repeats on a loop. The Doctor’s face is etched with concern.

“You gave me quite the shock, there, I’ll say,” He says gently, propping his patient up into a sitting position with pillows. He turns towards the screen on the left of his bed, “Prognosis looks good. You’ll live after all.”  
Garak manages a grimace and a weak “Good news,” before the Doctor takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Garak watches as his face softens, and he reaches over to rest a hand on his knee.  
“That said, I think we need to talk,” His heart sank. “That looks an awful lot like my name tattooed on your shoulder. I searched the station’s Cardassian database and came back empty handed. There’s no phrase that resembles it in Cardassi,” he said slowly.  
Garak, desperate to shield his feelings from the onslaught of emotion that was sure to come next, let out a chuckle. His next words were almost as painful as the wound had been.  
“Are you suggesting I would have tattooed your name anywhere on my body, Julian? That’s rather arrogant of you. A trick of the light, I’m sure. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He reached for the clothing folded on a shelf beside his bed, despite the Doctor’s protestations that he ought to stay under observation. The bandage was the first thing he sought, desperate for the comfort and safety it provided. He all but sprints from the sickbay, holing himself away in his quarters, leaving his feelings to rot away at his insides, and his bitterness to consume him.

Julian let out a heavy sigh as he stared out over the late-night crowd in Quark’s. Garak’s odd behaviour was nothing he hadn’t seen before, but it somehow seemed different this time. The rest of his afternoon had consisted of scouring every inch of every record aboard the station with even a mention of Cardassia or Cardassian culture. He’d looked into the files of every planet in the union, every subculture and underground movement. The information was sparse at best, and he’d still come up with nothing. He looked across the table at Jadzia, who had paused midsentence, noticing his oddly absent focus. As she sipped elegantly at her Raktajino, Julian couldn’t help but notice the way her posture shifted.  
“You’ve been quiet this evening. You barely even raised an eyebrow when I mentioned Worf’s…you know. Usually you’re begging me for the juicy details!” Her smile was reassuring, but he didn’t know whether he was ready to share just yet. He hesitated, his eyes scanning her expectant expression.  
“I’m just….distracted.” He muttered.  
“I can see that. Come on, Julian. A penny for your thoughts?”

He let out another sigh, rubbing at the nape of his neck with the hand that wasn’t busy tracing circles on the table top.  
“Garak has been acting out of character,” He noticed the way she moved as if to speak and continued “I know he’s always a little strange, but it’s been worse than usual. That incident earlier was only the tip of the iceberg.”  
“I sense there’s more to this story,” He nodded, taking a sip of the bland coffee he had ordered from  the replicator to keep him awake.  
“Well, I know it sounds ridiculous, Jadzia- But could have sworn he had my name tattooed on his arm,”  
“Your name?”  
“Right. I tried to ask him about it but he wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the details. He said it must have been a trick of the light. I’ve searched everywhere but so far I haven’t found anything that could explain it. I know I wasn’t imagining things, though. Imagine that, my name. On _Garak_ , of all people. He barely tolerates me, god knows what would motivate him to do a thing like that.”  
“Oh, Julian,” She laughs, “I think you might have an admirer,”  
“Garak? That’s ridiculous! I’ve never heard Garak express an interest in anyone, let alone a human man. Nevertheless, do you promise you won’t tell anyone? I’d like to figure out what’s going on before I confront him again,”  
Jadzia Dax, notorious gossip, and station-wide purveyor of information did her best imitation of a reassuring smile, squeezing Julian’s hand.  
“Your secret is safe with me.” She nodded.

  
“You’ll never guess what Julian told me earlier,” Jadzia said, curling a strand of Kira’s hair around one of her fingers. The other woman looked up to meet her eye with a familiar, quizzical look. She liked to pretend that she didn’t enjoy hearing the gossip Jadzia had gathered from around the station, but they both knew that wasn’t the case. She very narrowly resisted the urge to roll her eyes.  
“What’s that?”  
Jadzia, who’d been bursting with excitement at the prospect of sharing a story about Elim Garak’s drunken antics, grinned from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat as she began to speak.  
“Garak got Julian’s name tattooed on his shoulder!” she all but squealed. Kira squinted. Not quite the reaction she had been looking for.  
“What did you say?”  
“Well, Julian said he was getting a little cagey about his wound, turns out- he has Julian Bashir written on his arm. I mean, can you believe it? I never would have expected _Garak_ to do something like that. Leeta, maybe, but not Mr. brooding and mysterious! I’ve been having brunch with him every morning for years and he’s never even mentioned it!”

Kira sat bolt upright, her eyes wide. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost. Jadzia elbowed her with a gentle smile.  
“Oh, Nerys, don’t look so serious. It’s just a bit of gossip,”  
Kira shook her head, bolting out of bed, and pulling her uniform trousers on underneath one of Jadzia’s loose T-shirts. Jadzia sighed, rolling onto one side and propping herself up on her elbow. She looked at Kira’s discarded PADD as she did.  
“Now, just where are you going at almost midnight?” She asked, just as Kira hurried towards the door.  
“I don’t have time to explain, I’ll be back later,” She shouted as she sprinted down the hallway. Jadzia shook her head, calling back,  
“Fine, but don’t be back too late, we have things to do in the morning!”

Kira, a woman with unusually high stamina was panting by the time she reached Julian’s quarters, only minutes later. She pounded insistently on the door for what seemed like hours, to no avail. She sighed. Julian needed to know and he needed to know immediately. She slid down the wall with a yawn, her back resting up against the door to his quarters. She supposed she’d just have to keep trying until she got his attention.

It was 9am when Julian finally emerged, with mussed up hair and a weary look already written across his gentle features. He could tell it was going to be one hell of a day. One hour in and he’d already wrenched his back when he tried to bend over. Perhaps he was getting old. He couldn’t help but dwell on the events of the previous day. In fact, he was barely paying attention to the medical report he was reading, let alone the world around him. If he’d been paying attention, he might have noticed Kira Nerys curled up in front of his door. Instead, Julian tripped straight over the Bajoran. He sat up, rubbing his head, only to see Kira hurtling towards him, lunging for the lapels of his uniform. He was taken aback.  
“Uh, Major. To what do I owe the…honour?” he asked cautiously, patting the ground in an attempt to find the PADD he had been holding only seconds earlier.  
“Listen to me, and listen closely for once in your life, Julian. That mark on Garak’s shoulder is called a soul mark, its an indicator of the supposed soulmate of a Cardassian. They all have one,” she tapped on his temple with a finger, “Get it?”

Julian’s eyes widened as he began to speak,  
“Jadzia _promised_ she wouldn’t mention it!” he protested, “I can’t believe she wou-“ Halfway through his sentence he paused, the gravity of what Kira had just said dawning on him at last. Kira, who had been waiting for the revelation to click for at least 2 minutes,  looked over her shoulder.  
“Computer, where’s Elim Garak?” She asked.  
The electronic voice responded “Elim Garak is currently on the upper deck of the promenade”  
Kira hauled Julian to his feet, shoving him in the direction of the turbolift.  
“Well, what are you waiting for, idiot? Go on.” She watched all 5 foot something of Julian’s lanky body stumble as he ran to find Garak with only a small roll of her eyes.

 

 

 

Stood on the upper deck of the promenade, Garak tipped a glass to his lips. It would soon be time to open his shop. He expected a busy, productive day. He had two customers coming for fittings of different descriptions, and he had heard on the grapevine that there was a delegation of ambassadors due to arrive at any minute. No one knew how to spend quite like a visiting dignitary. There was a saying on Cardassia- diplomats have the deepest pockets, and so far it was proving to be true. Over the rim of his glass, Garak saw a rather startled Doctor Bashir hurtling towards him at full speed. Julian, in near cartoon style, barely stopped himself in time to avoid colliding with the tailor, at which point Garak, a man hard wired to recognise potential threats, took off in the opposite direction.

Julian followed suit, calling after Garak as they raced through the promenade, the crowd parting like the red sea before them. Finally, Garak turned the corner, running into his store, and Julian, now panting like a gangly, unathletic child during their first sports day, stopped in front of him, one hand on his knee, and one clutching at his chest and he wheezed. He stood up, taking a deep breath.  
“You’re in love with me.” He said, somewhat dumbfounded.

Garak merely offered a sharp nod, drowning in the bitter reverence he felt for the other man; the man who stared across at him, his eyes wide with something like wonder. Julian’s soft figure was contrasted by the square, structured uniform. It widened his shoulders, made him look hawkish. It was a wonder they could see each other at all in the darkness of a station that slept around them. Julian’s hair curled round his ears like some kind of halo.

Steadying himself against the sturdy surface of the display rack in front of him, Garak’s hand closed around the exposed steel. There was nothing here that wasn’t stark and utilitarian, here, just how the Cardassians liked it. Deep Space Nine wasn’t beautiful by any stretch of the imagination. It was cold and dark and unpleasant. The very act of being in love with Julian Bashir sometimes felt like an act of rebellion. There was nothing rational about Julian- he was beauty for the sake of beauty, a visual symbol of everything Cardassia stood against. Soft, comfortable, tender. Garak’s heart soared when the corners of his Doctor’s lips quirked into a smile. Even the curve of his jaw was breath-taking  
“You could say that,“ His eyes were hard and cold. The tension that hung in the air between them was thicker than usual, almost suffocating. If they’d been on Cardassia perhaps they might have

“I could be in love with you. I could easily,” Julian responded.  
“Good to know,” Garak muttered, staring into his glass with a small sigh, piercing eyes focused directly on him. He thought they could bore a hole into his skull if Julian focused much harder.  
“Then what are you so scared of, Garak?” Their eyes met somewhere in the middle and the Cardassian appeared to deflate under scrutiny.

Julian stepped forward to close the gap between them, he moved to kiss Garak, but Garak is frozen solid where he stands, years of emotions flowing freely within him, and for the first time in many, many years, he really _feels._ The Doctor pulls back, his nose brushing against the other man’s as he does so. He’s wearing a sombre look, as if he’s confused that things didn’t quite go as he had expected. He opened his mouth to speak at the exact moment that Elim Garak finds his own voice. His arms snaked around Julian’s waist, pulling him flush to his body as he breathes in the other man’s scent. His eyes flutter closed. And the kiss- oh, the kiss feels like every good sensation Garak has ever felt in his life. It feels like heat and warmth, like a roaring fire in the winter, but also like a cool breeze blowing through the grass on an oppressive day in the middle of summer. It feels like he’s soaring. It feels like he’s home at last.


End file.
